Chapter 19
The grand dining hall had never felt quite so large before.
The vaulted ceilings felt higher, and the mahogany table seemed to stretch, pushing the hosts’ seats farther apart. It was almost as if Juliana were feeling what Marta might be feeling. She had gained a different insight into life by spending time with her sister-in-law in her private space.
She smoothed her skirts and tried to calm the anxious flutter in her chest. She thought she would not feel this way, but she was anxious for two reasons. First, she wanted Marta to see the value of being downstairs. Second, she wondered what Cassian would think when he found out.
I am sure he would be proud to see his sister so happy and improved.
“You look like you are about to choke on air, dear,” the Dowager Duchess cheerfully commented.
Anabelle Cavendish sat as straight as ever at the far end of the table. She held her spectacles to help her inspect her grandson’s wife.
Could that be pity in her eyes, slightly disguised by the reflection in her spectacles?
“I am merely expectant, Your Grace,” Juliana replied, her eyes on the doorway.
“You sure are.” Anabelle Cavendish set down her spectacles and reached for her wine.
“So was I, the first time I attempted to persuade Marta to leave that tower. I was expectant for approximately four months before I accepted that the girl would come down in her own time.” She paused. “Or not at all.”
“She will come,” Juliana said, with more certainty than she felt.
The Dowager said nothing, which was, Juliana had learned, her particular manner of expressing doubt.
Juliana thought of Marta upstairs, standing in front of her mirror in the purple silk gown they had chosen together that afternoon, breathing carefully the way Juliana had shown her, counting to four on the inhale and four on the exhale.
She thought of the past week; of the garden excursions taken in the early-morning quiet, of Marta’s face turned toward the pale winter sun, of how she had grown a little more solid with each passing day.
The servants were requested to stay in their quarters for at least a couple of hours while the family dined with Marta. Juliana did not want prying eyes on her sister-in-law’s first attempts at reintegrating with the family.
Then, they heard a soft shuffling in the hall.
Both women looked up.
Marta appeared in the doorway in her purple silk, and for a moment she simply stood there, taking in the candlelit room, the table, and the two faces turned toward her.
Juliana watched her chest rise and fall with a breath that was slightly too deliberate.
Marta’s chin was up, but her eyes moved carefully around the room, as if assessing the distance to the nearest exit.
“I am here,” she whispered. “I have managed not to transform into salt.”
“I can see that,” Juliana teased. A prickling feeling lingered. “If that had happened, we would have had to hide you from Cook.”
“Yes. I would be undoubtedly useful in the kitchens in that scenario.”
Marta laughed appreciatively as she glided toward them.
Juliana noticed the change in pace. She realized that Cassian’s sister was more graceful than she would have anyone know, but her fear of going beyond the West Tower had repressed other facets of her.
Outside her hiding place, she was a duke’s sister through and through. A lady.
“You are so beautiful,” Juliana gushed, her emotions brimming. She felt proud of her sister-in-law for fighting her fears. She was proud of her own part in it, being able to coax a young woman out of years of hiding.
“Thank you,” Marta said softly, a grin forming on her face.
The dowager said nothing at all, but her eyes were bright, and she applied herself to her wine with somewhat more attention than the vintage warranted.
For the first hour, everything was better than Juliana had dared hope.
Marta ate with appetite, laughed at Juliana’s account of her first attempts at shooting a pistol, and even contributed a story of her own about Cassian at fifteen, which had both women in stitches and the dowager pressing her lips together against a smile she clearly felt was beneath her dignity.
The color in Marta’s cheeks deepened. Her shoulders dropped a fraction from their careful set.
She was so absorbed in watching Marta that she almost missed the sound of a cane tapping the floor.
Almost.
The front doors flung open. Cassian had arrived earlier than expected, but the reality of him thundering through the halls was still intimidating. It was a declaration of war, and he had not quite reached them. Juliana braced herself for the impact.
He looked terrible, which she had not expected.
His coat was wet and travel-stained, his hair disheveled, his face drawn with an exhaustion that went beyond the merely physical.
He had been gone for ten days, and whatever he had found in London had not resolved itself cleanly.
She could see it in the set of his jaw, in the darkness around his eyes.
His gaze was like burning coals as it moved from Juliana to his sister.
“What is this?” he asked, and his voice was very quiet, which was worse than shouting.
“Your sister is joining us for dinner,” Juliana said, keeping her own voice steady. “As she has every right to do.”
“I had forbidden—”
“Look at me, Cassian!” Marta urged, her voice trembling.
Juliana did not know whether it was because she was afraid of him or simply because she was herself.
What could not be denied was the pride in the quaver of her voice and the tilt of her chin.
“I have managed to leave the tower, and I am well. Do you see me?”
He looked at her for a long moment. At the color in her cheeks, the set of her chin, and the purple silk she had chosen herself that afternoon.
“Yes, I can see you,” he said coldly.
Juliana could see that it was not just anger marring his features, but also fear. He was afraid for his sister. He was worried about her, and it made Juliana’s chest ache.
What had happened to Marta?
“Then sit down,” Marta said. “You look dreadful, and the beef is getting cold.”
Her heart went out to both siblings for whatever they had gone through. Cassian hobbled toward them, his limp more pronounced as he took his seat.
“Juliana, I had forbidden you to venture into the West Tower.”
“But why? You could have told me, Cassian,” she protested. “I would have helped you think of a way to have her join us, as she did today. Do you really believe that living away from the rest of the family is good for her?”
“You have no idea what you are getting yourself into.” The words came out low and controlled, but his palm came down hard on the table, making the cutlery jump.
His grandmother pressed her lips into a thin line.
“A fortnight of visits does not make you an authority on my sister’s condition.
I have been living with this for years, Juliana. ”
“It was my decision, Cassian,” Marta said softly. “Nobody forced me to go downstairs. I like Juliana. We have become friends, and I want to spend time with her here, too.”
“Oh, Cassian. You have come a long way, and you are here to fight with your wife at the dinner table,” the Dowager Duchess interrupted. “Do not be a bore. Let your sister live her life as she sees fit. She will return to the tower if and when she wants to.”
Cassian sighed. Then, he looked at his sister and smiled.
It was a forced smile, tight and did not quite reach his eyes, but it was a smile.
Juliana could see that he loved his sister enough to forget about today’s mishaps and disobedience, mostly hers.
She wondered what it would be like to be a true object of his affection. She stifled her own sigh.
I want him to look at me like that.
She set down her glass and smoothed her skirts.
Foolish woman, she thought. Utterly, completely foolish.
The dinner finally continued into a calmer, even happier, version. Juliana could only hope that this would continue.
“You look better,” Cassian observed, possibly seeing the warm flush on his sister’s cheeks.
“Thank you. Juliana has been sneaking treats to the tower,” Marta said, with the particular satisfaction of someone implicating a co-conspirator. “Tarts, mostly. And lemon curd.”
“I am not surprised that she would do something like that,” the Duke remarked, giving Juliana a look that she could not read.
Then, the door opened once more.
Juliana heard it and set down her fork.
“It looks as though I have arrived just in time for dessert!” announced Juliana’s grandmama, appearing in the doorway in her best silk gown, with the air of someone who had been expected and was choosing to make an entrance.
The Dowager Duchess turned slowly in her seat, in the manner of a cannon being repositioned.
“Honoria,” she said. “How extraordinary. I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you really?” Lady Hawthorne said, already making her way toward the nearest empty chair.
“No,” said the Dowager Duchess. “But I find it is always polite to pretend, particularly when someone appears without warning during the beef course.” She did not even rise from her seat.
Instead, she peered at the new arrival as if inspecting a blemish on the rug.
“I do not recall an invitation being extended.”
“Why would I need a formal invitation? My granddaughter lives here,” Lady Hawthorne declared, proudly raising her chin. She smiled gamely, refusing to wilt under the chilly reception. “I have every right to see and dine with her.”
“Family might not refuse you, but civil society certainly requires something of you,” Anabelle snapped, her voice disdainful. “One can easily see when a household no longer follows certain rules. Even the village postman has the decency to knock!”
“I am a titled woman, Your Grace, not a postman!” Lady Hawthorne responded indignantly.